Seventy-seven...

 

...Sunset Strip.

Ironically, you'd have to be 77 to get the reference. For you younger kids, 77 Sunset Strip was a late '50's ABC detective show starring, among others, Edd Kookie Byrnes. 

The photo above reflects a moment in a man's life when he realizes that today he is turning 77. Don't get me wrong. Some people I loved dearly never got a chance to turn 77. I'm actually grateful to be 77, sharing life with a beautiful companion, spending the year in two magnificent parts of the country, playing a fair bit of golf with good friends, and, most days, solving Wordle, Connections, and Final Jeopardy in grand style.

So, yes I'm grateful. Grateful and old.

Oh, if you're wondering about the scar, it's actually a funny story. To celebrate the recent $83.3 million verdict against Trump, I walked into a local bar, viewed a sea of red MAGA hats, and offered up a toast to Jack Smith and E. Jean Carroll. I don't remember much after that. 

Ed. note: Obviously, the above scenario is completely fictitious. No one would have survived the events as described, least of all your lame blogger.

OK, the truth is I had another round of MOH's surgery to deal with some pre-cancerous spots on my ruggedly handsome face. A temporary scar was the result of the successful surgery. Sadly the scar is gone now, forcing me to invent other ways to look dangerous. If you ask Buddy, he'll tell you they're not working. TLOTH would concur.

But let's get back to being old. Here are some unfiltered thoughts on turning 77 years of age.

I don't own many pairs of shoes that require laces. The reason is that lacing up a shoe or sneaker takes quite a bit out of me. I usually require an immediate nap which, of course, eliminates the need for any shoe, laced or otherwise. When I do tie up a laced shoe, I've noticed that the knot, which had been located in the center of the shoe's tongue for most of my life, has now moved way over to the side, throwing off the whole symmetry of the shoe wearing experience. To wit:

I haven't gained the wisdom one would normally expect an elder to have garnered during a full life. For example, anybody with even a smattering of wisdom would have given up on golf years ago, but I keep trudging out there fully expecting to bring the beautiful Indian Bayou golf course to its knees. After 18 holes, bedraggled and beaten to a pulp, I make my way home, drag my skinned carcass onto the elevator, struggle to walk the 50 feet to our condo, and quickly sag into my favorite chair, a weary, beaten man.

Then the next day I do it again.

Clearly, wisdom has eluded me.

If you're anywhere close to my age, I wonder if the first half hour of your typical day is anything like mine.

I hope not.

Typically I get out of bed around six. I do this for two reasons: first, a grey and white Schnauzer mix is sitting on my head licking my eyes; second, I have to at least pee. The first thing I notice as I make my way from supine to upright is a searing pain running down my right side. I try to lie back down but the damn Schnauzer has already claimed the pillow so I have no alternative but to complete this rising out of bed activity. Once I am vertical I haltingly make my way to the bathroom. To understand my gait at this point in the morning, picture Frankenstein's monster when he first tried to walk. Now make him slower. That's pretty much it.

After completing my bathroom visit, I must attend to Buddy the Schnauzer, who is now desperate to "go out." The searing pain down my right side has not abated, and I am still walking like young Frankenstein after having finished the Munich Marathon. I hook up Buddy and we head out the door. Buddy, who is a very solid 14 pounds, is quite eager to get outside and is straining mightily against the leash. He doesn't realize that the person on the other end of the leash is completely incapable of walking jauntily but rather forced to walk like a Zombie with sciatica. We could have a "Down goes Frazier" episode any minute. At this point I am fervently hoping that Buddy will handle ALL his business in a suitable area right by the front door, whereupon I will stoop down with my plastic baggie, leave no trace, and stumble back to the comfort of the condo. Unfortunately, on most mornings, especially cold and rainy ones, Buddy has a preference.

That's right, people. The damn Schnauzer will have a freakin' preference.

He will prefer to drag my lame, arthritic, crooked corpse all the way down the parking lot to the doggie bowl where he will sniff and sample the acres of available turf until he finds just the right spot for his purpose, while I follow along, limping, groaning, plastic bag in hand. You may well ask why would a grown 77-year-old man torture himself this way EVERY morning. Well,...

  'Nuff said. Oh, as far as that debilitating pain is concerned, after a half hour in a comfortable chair, two cups of Starbuck's Sumatra and two Aleve, it's like it never even happened.

Until the next morning.

At 77 I've noticed some other changes. My appetite for food isn't near what it used to be. (Other appetites have dwindled also, but we'll leave those aside for now.) Three slices of pizza out of eight is more than enough now. It's a struggle to make my way through to the end of a restaurant cheeseburger. Same with a typical steak. Same with beer. I'm hard pressed to get through even a single beer let alone two, three, or six as I was once wont to do. As it turns out, the only part of my dietary appetites that have increased with age is the milk and cookie section.

I spend entire days dreaming about cold glasses of whole milk and dozens of fresh-baked Publix chocolate chip cookies. On the days that I'm not dreaming about them, I'm eating them. I realize that this recent spike in my appetite will lower my chances of reaching 78, but what's a fella to do? Hey, I'm already eating less pizza. What more do you want?

At 77 I'm not eager to experience any so-called exotic travel destinations. Bali, Singapore, Machu Picchu, Woonsocket, etc. will have to get by without me I'm afraid. I think it's the flights more than anything. I was never a fan of transoceanic plane trips anyway. Also, my pathetic food preferences are so limited I might gravely insult some tribal chieftain by refusing to eat whatever I'm served, thus sparking some international incident, and we don't need any more of those, people.

And there are the TSA lines.

No, I think whatever future travel plans I am lucky enough to make with the fabulous TLOTH will be confined to North America. For example in late August, we will leave Maine and join good friends for a trip to scenic Nova Scotia, using nothing but an automobile and maybe a ferry or two. I've already checked on Nova Scotia cookies.

They have 'em.

And last we come to sports. There was a time in my younger days (October of 1986 for example) when a Red Sox loss would leave me so devastated, outraged, and eventually catatonic even, that I could hardly function. I couldn't watch a Celtics or Patriots game, even a meaningless one, without roaring and raging against this ref or that opposing player. The balance one hopes to achieve in life was way out of whack in my case. Well, I'm happy to report that at 77, a much better balance has been achieved. I don't remember actually working on this, it just seems to have happened on its own. Do I still care about the fortunes of the Boston sports teams? Yes. Do I still purchase tee shirts that proclaim my loyalty to those same teams? Yes, despite sincere requests from TLOTH that I find other tee shirt genres. Do I allow these same teams' misfortunes to ruin otherwise glorious days in Northwest Florida or Downeast Maine?

Nope. 

Not a chance. 

For the days have dwindled down to a precious few and I have to be ready for the next sunset photo opportunity. Otherwise I might miss this...

or this...

or especially this...

Ain't life steamin' toward 80 grand!